"So help me God, those scalps are never Seneca!" "Erie!" he exclaimed with a mixture of rage and horror.

And I saw his sinewy hand quivering on his knife-hilt.

"Listen, Loskiel! I knew it! No one has told me.

I have sat here all the day alone, making my steel bright and my paint fresher, and singing to myself my people's songs.
And ever as I sat at the lodge door, something in the summer wind mocked at me and whispered to me of demons.

And when I rose and stood at gaze, troubled, and minding every river-breeze, faintly I seemed to scent the taint of evil.